


Interlude:  The Daily Grind

by missmollyetc



Series: Cardverse [4]
Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Multi, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-13
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don tried, but it can't get better without getting worse. Takes place between parts Two and Three of "The Business Card."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude:  The Daily Grind

It hadn't happened. And even if it had, no one could prove it.

Every lamp and fixture in his apartment was turned on. The reflection of the lights had blinded him three times before he learned to sit very still. The tv was turned to the local news. His suit jacket was in the closet, and his tie was nearby on the floor somewhere.

Don did _not_ know what the inside of his brother's mouth tasted like.

He was thinking about dinner.

He did _not_ know what the solid muscles of his brother's body felt like under his hands.

A new Indian place had just opened up--he'd gotten a flyer in the mail yesterday. It didn't look too expensive.

He _did not_ know the desperate sounds his brother made when he came.

He could order pizza again, mushrooms and sausage sounded pretty good. Better than curry, actually.

Charlie's mouth had been spiced with cumin and mint leaves and the damn ink, and--Don was _not_ sitting at his kitchen table, thinking about his brother's mouth, or his body, _or_ his sounds. He wasn't. It hadn't happened.

Don outlined a square on the countertop. His eyes followed the path of his fingertip as he traced and retraced the pattern. The soles of his feet were firmly planted on the linoleum floor. The newscaster on the tv switched to the weather report.

He thought maybe Indian.

 

***

 

Dr. Weber sat across from him at the head of the conference room table. Their chairs were swiveled to face each other, with the door behind Don's back--not that that bothered him.

His skin itched beneath his shirt, and he kept his hands from scratching under the collar by crossing them over Terry's bruise on his stomach. His Adam's Apple bobbed against the knot in his tie.

Their first session had been introductory. Dr. Weber had gotten his measure, and Don had taken hers. So far, the second session had been…groundwork, the particulars of the case. He hadn't said much. There wasn't much to say.

"Really, Don, don't you think this hour would be more productive if we actually talked?"

Dr. Weber's voice was a peculiar mix of detachment and compassion. She leaned towards him in her chair, her supple body curling around itself. Her dark hair, pulled back at the temples, slipped down her wide collar. Her skirt rode a good two inches above her crossed knees.

He smiled tightly. If the interview remained friendly, then the report would be favorable. He had to keep that in mind.

Dr. Weber smiled as well. He'd quickly learned to hate that, even after only an hour and a half in her company. She never showed any teeth. Her lips stretched across her face, thin and curled just a bit at the edges, and her eyes observed every move.

A headache began to pinch behind his eyes. The lights in the conference room weren't bright enough. He wanted to squint.

Don hooked one foot around his chair leg. The pad of paper on Dr. Weber's lap was half-filled with notes. With a little effort, Don could read upside down, but she wrote small, and he'd been trying for the past twenty minutes with no luck.

She re-crossed her legs for the seventh time. He heard the slight, dry rasp of her hose as it stretched across her calf muscles. The sharp toe of her leather pump stabbed in his direction.

If Dr. Weber thought he just liked her legs, well…point for his side. If she believed he was distracted by her good looks, _she_ might get diverted, and _he_ might get through the damn sessions with his dignity intact…and a date wouldn't be the end of the world.

Actually, it might be nice, even if she made his skin crawl. Something--Don swallowed--normal.

"You were going to tell me about how you felt," Dr. Weber prompted.

He blinked rapidly. "Felt? About what?"

What had she heard about Charlie?

"About working with Agent Lake on this particular case."

His eyes wanted to narrow. Don schooled his breathing. This was just like a suspect interrogation, the first one to get rattled lost. If he was going to pass Dr. Weber's examinations, plus the review board, and get AD Marlow's green light, then Don _had_ to maintain control.

"I felt fine working with Terry--Agent Lake," he said, keeping his voice even. "While the Ballard case was difficult, I think she did her job well…excellently in fact."

Dr. Weber raised a carefully manicured eyebrow. An equally well-manicured fingernail tapped her notepad. Her maroon-tinted mouth curled at the edges.

"And knowing that Terry had a past history with one of the suspects didn't bother you at all? She _did_ receive a reprimand for her past behavior concerning Mr. Ballard."

Don ground his teeth, and Dr. Weber wrote something down. He stopped.

"I was…aware of Agent Lake's past involvement with Ballard, yes," he said, watching her write. "And I was completely impressed by the professional and above board way she conducted herself throughout the course of the investigation."

The hell did Dr. Weber want with Terry? Hadn't she had enough to put up with lately? It wasn't her place to decide Terry's fitness to work, and…

"I had, and still maintain, full confidence in Agent Lake's abilities as a Federal agent," he said.

The note taking paused. Dr. Weber sat back in her chair. Her slim fingers tapped the head of her pen on her papers. She looked at him. He'd never seen her blink.

"That's good, Don," she said. "Now, what about your performance?"

Don's eyes narrowed. "What about it?"

"Was your performance…"--she consulted her notes--" 'professional' and 'above board?' "

He straightened in his chair, and his fingers fluttered on its arm. "Yes."

He'd entered the suspects' house via the front door, announced his presence and identified himself as an FBI agent.

"Really?" she asked. "You mentioned before that the case was difficult. Was it difficult _solely_ for Terry?"

"I'd be lying if I said yes."

Kirkpatrick had brandished a gun.

She smiled again. His toe tapped on the floor, and he froze, startled at the noise. Dr. Weber took notes.

"What about the case was difficult?"

"They'd kidnapped a little girl from her sixth birthday party. You don't think that's a little tough to take?"

He had shot Kirkpatrick.

Dr. Weber leaned forward again. She flipped the uncapped pen in her hand against her opposite palm, and a well of ink blossomed on her skin.

"Is that all?" she asked.

Don blinked, and did not lick his lips. "Isn't that enough?"

Three to the center of the chest. Textbook execution, just like on the firing range. End of story.

 

***

 

Terry was naked, flaunting her smooth, pale skin and mischievous smile. The slim line of her body settled across from Don on the bed. Strands of hair dangled down her chest. Her fingers toyed with the ends as she slid her hands down her shoulders. She cupped each breast in her hands, and squeezed. Her nipples tightened to hard points.

Don reached down, and took his cock in his hand, stroking as Terry's head fell back against the mattress. She moaned, and her legs spread across the bed…

The answering machine clicked and whirred to life. Don ignored it. Terry walked her fingers down her stomach, and the smell of cordite smoke filled Don's nose, souring his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated harder, ignoring the smell, blocking the light, and…

"Agent Eppes? This is Dr. Weber's office. We're sorry to have missed you. Just calling to confirm your appointment with her at…two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Have a good day!"

Don snarled, hitting the back of his head against the pillow, and glaring in the direction of the answering machine. He kicked the folded pile of his clothes off the end of the bed. His half-hard erection softened in his hand. He rubbed the top of his thigh, and blew air through his nose.

The phone was off tonight. So was the tv. Noise, people, it was…too much. Not enough. He talked all the time, answering to people who took notes and evaluated his every move. Questions, and more questions. Every fucking week with Dr. Weber, and every fucking day…not even his desk was safe.

Why was he breathing hard? Was his breathing too shallow? What questions made him sweat, and which got under his skin. What did he do when confronted with autopsy reports? Coroner's photos weren't too much for him, were they? How did he feel about his co-workers. About his--about his brother. Did he like working with Charlie? Was Charlie an asset? Could he take the shot again? _Would he take the shot again?_ Talk to me Don, tell me what's bothering you. _I'm here to help_. Nobody was ever fucking satisfied.

His skin itched, an awkward pulse of arousal stunted in his veins.

It had been a routine house invasion. He'd been perfectly in the right, and--Dr. Weber was a fucking vulture, picking over dead cases for rotten treasure. It was time to move on, time to--time for Terry to stop…looking at him as if he was going to…

Don ground his teeth, and widened his eyes, soaking in the bright lights of the apartment. He'd turned on the lamps, and taken off their shades, the moment he'd gotten home, except for the little fluorescent ones above the kitchen sink. They'd burned out overnight.

He could turn on all the lamps in the place until there was nowhere left for him to hide, and he _still_ couldn't figure out what the _fuck_ was wrong with him.

Terry. Fuck, he even felt guilty for jerking off and thinking about her after what he'd done. She was…she hadn't deserved to be treated that way. Not by him--not by anyone, but most definitely not by him.

He stared at the ceiling, counting the lines in the paint. Terry was the least of his problems, of his… God, he was such a fuck up.

Charlie. What was he going to do about Charlie?

He could--it could _never_ happen again. That it had happened once was bad enough, but…he…he'd taken them back home after--afterwards. To get cleaned up, and a change of clothes, and…he'd touched him.

He'd touched Charlie's hip, traced the slight dip of bone sticking out from Charlie's ruined jeans, and…Charlie had shivered, staring back at his face.

Don's eyes slipped half-closed. His thighs settled against his blankets. His fingers rubbed at the edge of his pubic hair.

Charlie had sat down, forcing Don's hand to slide up his side, and curl around his upper body. Charlie's own hand had risen to cup Don's, then slid up his forearm. His blunt fingernails scraped into the inside of Don's elbow, poking the thin skin.

Don's cock hardened against his leg. He sucked in a deep breath. The apartment lights beat hot against his bare skin, shooting red flares through his eyelids.

Charlie'd been breathing hard, shaking as his erection tented his jeans. Don had fallen by the side of the bed, pressing his fingers deep into the muscles of Charlie's torso. He'd bent his head, and licked the skin above Charlie's nipple, flicking the tip of his tongue at the hard nub, feeling it tighten. He'd closed his mouth over the nipple and bit. Charlie had carded his hand into Don's hair, clutching him close and moaning.

He rubbed his hand along the shaft. His feet dug into the mattress, pushing him up into the pressure. God, it was good, and it hurt so _much_…

The click of the answering machine barely registered in his hearing. Don thrust into his fist, twisting his fingers at the head while Charlie shuddered underneath his mouth, and--

"Don, this is your father. Are you there this time?"

He froze, flattening his hand against his cock. His head pounded. Muzzle flash stabbed his eyes.

"…Guess not. Now, I don't know what's going on with you right now, but I got a call from a Dr. Weber a couple days ago…wanting to talk about you and…well, I told her anything I needed to say about you I could damn well say to your _face_, but you know how these shrinks are--pick, pick, pick until they get their way. I--I didn't tell her anything, but--"

*Beep!*

Don covered his face with his hands. Dad. His dad. _Their_ dad. What would he think? Say? How could--she was talking to Dad, now. Dr. Weber was fucking trolling for gossip from his _family_. Who was next? Charlie?

He didn't think he could classify what erupted from his throat as a laugh. Oh, the stories Charlie could tell her. If he hadn't already called the cops.

Maybe _he_ should call the cops. There were names for people like him.

"Don? Don? Look, this damn machine of yours cut me off, but…I want you to know I'm there for you, if--if you ever need to talk. …All right? All right. And--look, I'm proud of you, son. You do good work."

The pillow made a very good hiding place, once he'd wrapped it around his head, but Dad's message still pierced his hearing.

"Listen, I know you and Charlie have had your differences, but if--for some reason--you can't talk to me? I think…I think this case got to Charlie as well, and…he's been very quiet lately. Very focused on his work, if you know what I mean, so…I think it might be a good idea if you two talked. Yep, okay, that's all! Bye."

Don rolled over onto his stomach, pressed his face into the mattress, and shook.

 

***

 

Coffee in either hand, he skirted around the side partition between his and Carol Pratchett's desks, making sure to keep his head down in case Carol felt like chatting at him again. Terry was working at her computer, transcribing her backlog of interview notes into a report. Her hair was kept back at the temples by a pair of barrettes, leaving the rest to fall down her neck.

"Hey," he said, standing at the edge of her desk. The heat of the coffee in the thin take out cups began to sting his palms.

Terry's head bent slightly in his direction. Her typing slowed, and then sped up again.

"Hey," she said.

She reached out, and flipped a page.

He set the coffee cup--two creams, no sugar--at her elbow, and sat down at his desk. He squeezed his own cup until the plastic lid squeaked, letting the burn sink into his flesh. Coffee bubbled out of the drink opening.

His stomach protested at the sight, and he set the cup aside. It lined up nicely next to his keyboard, and the double stacks of files cluttering up his workspace. Desk duty: brainless, gunless, and dickless.

FBI Agent Suffocated in Freak Paperwork Accident would be the headline in tomorrow's newspaper. No matter how much he typed, the stacks never got any lower. Evidence reports, ballistics reports, situation reports…if criminals had to process half the red tape _he_ had to, no crime would ever be committed. Don shuffled the papers covering his desk into some sort of order, and flopped the stack into his out-box.

His eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep, and hours of typing, filing, and signing off on three months of accumulated paperwork. A headache had riveted screws into the base of his skull two hours ago, and not even four aspirin had managed to undo the damage. And Terry wouldn't talk to him.

Or, she would, but whenever Terry opened her mouth, she used Dr. Weber's voice. It sent chills down his spine. And, when he tried to talk to her, the bruise on his stomach hurt all over again.

He squinted at the closest stack of folders, and poked the topmost file cautiously. Weren't they supposed to be in the computer age by now?

"Don…"

He swiveled his chair at the sound of Terry's voice. She was facing him, smiling a little, and Don let himself smile back, feeling the muscles creak in his jaw. For a moment, he felt the spark, the Don and Terry Spark, capable of surviving time, break-ups, and long distances. Then she crossed her legs, and laced her fingers over her knee.

"I want to thank you for the drink," she said.

Don nodded. His fingers fidgeted on the arm of his chair. Terry's eyes caught the movement. Her eyebrow quirked.

Terry sighed, and bit the corner of her lip. She looked to her left, out over the office, and then back to him. Don reminded himself not to rub his stomach bruise.

"_And_?" he asked, finally.

"_But_, I don't think…" She took a deep breath. "I don't think you should be bringing me coffee right now. I think--"

"I was being _friendly_, for--"

"Were you?"

Her eyebrows snapped upwards, and Don's mouth clamped shut. His jaw clenched.

"I think we need a little distance right now, Don," she said gently.

He snorted. Distance. That was a nice way to put it.

"Don…"

"No, I agree. 'Distance' sounds great."

Terry's eyes narrowed. The light bounced off her watchband, and blinded him momentarily. He blinked away the afterimage. Terry leaned forward, lowering her voice.

"Have you talked to Dr. Weber about kissing me?" she asked.

Don grimaced. "Have you?"

She straightened in her chair, nostrils flaring. Her mouth pressed to a thin line.

"I don't talk to your shrink," she said.

Well, at least that made two of them. He swiveled his chair back around to face his paperwork, and picked up a pen. He tapped the end against his bottom lip while, behind him, Terry left her desk. He watched her leave, holstering her gun on her way out the door.

 

***

 

He needed better light bulbs. The one in his hand was the fourth he'd had to replace that day. He looked sideways as he screwed in the fresh bulb, and flipped the on switch.

Two empty bottles on his coffee table. One had fallen and rolled against its neighbor, leaking a stale line of alcohol over his TV Guide. The freshest beer on his coffee table had warmed, but Don swallowed anyway. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and adjusted his tie, making sure the knot pressed exactly at the hollow of his throat. He shook the bottle, almost time for another.

The knocking on the front door almost made him drop both bottle and light bulb on his way to the kitchen. He ignored it. He hadn't ordered dinner.

He tossed the burnt out light in the trash with the others, and swallowed the last of his warm beer. The bottle made a satisfying missile, shattering the thin glass bulbs.

The knocking increased as Don opened the fridge and took out a fresh bottle. Three down, three more to go. He popped the cap, and opened his mouth, tilting the alcohol down his throat. Whoever was at the door, he was persistent.

"Don? I know you're in there!"

He swallowed deeply, clenching his free hand into a fist against his thigh. Charlie's voice was a little muffled, but it still came through the door like a gunshot. Don's cock shifted in his slacks.

"Dad sent me… He thinks"--nervous chuckle--"thinks we've got something to talk about."

Muzzle flash in his eyes, and Charlie's taste in his mouth. Don kept drinking. His eyes began to water. Finally, he stopped, coughing into his wrist.

Charlie pounded once on the door.

"See! I _heard_ that! You _are_ in there!"

Against his will, Don chuckled. His throat burned, and he swallowed to calm it. He shook his head, and pressed the cold glass against his temple.

This was bad. Why the hell had Dad sent him over? Don grimaced. Dad was always pushing.

Fix the problem. Take care of your little brother. Do your best, and you'll succeed at anything. Well, he was the problem, and taking 'care' of Charlie was hurting Charlie, and Don's best hadn't been good enough for weeks.

"Look, I've been doing some…I've been going over some figures, and…"

The door shook, and Don turned sharply. It sounded like Charlie had kicked the doorframe, hard. Don took a step towards the hall. The light in the apartment threw a stark furniture shadow against the mouth of the entryway. Don swallowed more beer.

"I…I just…c'mon, at least let me tell Dad I saw you."

Don took another step forward. His beer bottle hung loose in his grip. The door thumped again.

"He was upset when you didn't call him back about Dr. Weber. He thinks she wants to talk to him. …Maybe me, as well. He's been griping about it all day."

The bottle bumped against his knee as he walked to the door. Charlie didn't sound right, even through the wood. He… Don squinted. After awhile, all the light hurt his eyes. A headache wriggled in the back of his head, fuzzy with alcohol.

"Don? Open up, okay? Your neighbors are staring at me. Yes, ma'am! I'm still here!"

That was probably Mrs. Green. She was a bit paranoid.

Charlie kicked the door again. "Don, open the door. I think she's calling the police."

Definitely Mrs. Green. Don closed one eye and stared at his door. He leaned his forehead against the wood.

Dad had said Charlie was focusing on his work again. That meant he wasn't sleeping.

"Are--are you there? Are you all right?"

Don knocked his head against the door, and screwed his eyes shut. He spread his free palm against the wood. The beer bottle pressed against his stomach, cold and smooth through his work shirt.

If Charlie wasn't sleeping, then he wasn't eating. He'd done the same thing when Mom died, when Don had left for college, when Charlie was six and stealing away with Don's math book because nobody knew how to talk to him. He hid in his numbers, like they made him invulnerable.

"Sorry, I know you hate that…but…damn it, open the door!"

Charlie wasn't invulnerable. No one was invulnerable. People hurt each other every day with the best of intentions.

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm _sorry_ for…Don…"

Charlie sighed. Don's hand slid to the lock. He drew back the latch slowly.

Charlie didn't deserve this, anymore than Terry had. Don had created their situation. It was up to him to create the escape. He should relock the door.

"I never… This isn't…I'm not good at this."

The door shuddered under Charlie's fist. Don stepped away.

He liked girls. Women, like Terry and Kim. He liked men too, hell, David was a damn distraction some days, but liking men did _not_ mean he wanted to fuck his little brother.

Except he did, and he had, and that meant he'd done something so horrible, no one could ever forgive him.

The first step to solving a problem was isolating the factors involved. There was Charlie, and there was himself. One plus one equaled two, as Charlie put it. So each factor had to be separated, in order to break up the equation. There. Don could do math too.

"You're alive. I'm so happy you're alive. And, I just…I didn't _mean_ to!"

Oh, Lord. Of anyone, Charlie should not be apologizing to _him_.

Don's hand lifted to cup the doorknob.

"I didn't come here with…expectations."

And Don didn't have any. He didn't…what was there to say anymore?

"I just…" Charlie knocked on the door again, three times and then twice. "You know, what? You want me gone, then…you tell me to my face. You open this door, and you throw me out of your building yourself and--Yes, ma'am! The doorman _did_ let me in!"

Don twisted the knob, and pulled.

He opened the door to reveal the back of Charlie's head and the solid line of his shoulders. Charlie dragged a hand through his hair, and then pointed to the right.

"_No_, I did _not_ give him twenty dollars. I--oh."

Charlie's head whipped around to blink at Don. He swallowed, and his hand dropped to his side. He looked too pale, even for Charlie. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a smudge of ink on the side of his nose.

Don forced his breath to stay even. "Everything's fine, Mrs. Green," he said. "Go back inside."

He heard Mrs. Green huff, and then the slam of her door, but all he saw was Charlie, staring back at him. Charlie looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and what was so damned important that he'd let Dad nag him into visiting?

Don raised his beer bottle. Charlie's eyes followed the path it took to his mouth. He saw Charlie swallow as Don did. Don's groin tightened.

He shouldn't have opened the door. He was a grown man. He was Charlie's big brother. He was making a _mistake_, compounding his fault, and cloaking the truth in _worry_ for his little brother.

He was sick.

Charlie crossed his arms over his chest, and hunched his shoulders. He kicked the floor with his toe. Don clenched his hand on the doorknob. He could do this. He could fix this.

"Hey," Charlie said.

Don took a deep breath, and felt the apartment lights beating at his body. He could do this. He could do this. What was he going to do?

Don frowned, ignoring Charlie's flinch.

"You gonna let me in?" Charlie asked shakily. "I've been running some sequences--charts, actually, and I think I've got--"

"You've seen me," he broke in.

Charlie's head snapped up. Don's mouth closed, his throat constricted. He coughed, and focused on a point over Charlie's head.

"Go home," Don said.

He started to close the door, and it smacked straight into Charlie's foot. He blinked, and Charlie loomed into focus. Charlie moved closer to him.

"We're having this conversation," he said. "It's either gonna be in the hallway, or in your apartment."

Don closed his eyes, and banged his head against the edge of the door. It felt good, so he did it again, sparks arcing across his eyelids.

"_Stop_ that," Charlie said.

Don cracked his eyes open, and Charlie was close enough to touch.

"It's my apartment," Don said. "If you don't like it, then leave."

Charlie frowned, and Don followed the dip with his eyes, down the tendon in Charlie's throat to the hollow between his collar bones. He licked his lips. Charlie's breath ghosted across his face.

Don felt his skin heat. He felt Charlie touch his hand, the tentative brush of fingertips on his knuckles. Don wanted to close his eyes, but the tilt of Charlie's head begged him to keep looking.

"Why the hell does everybody want to talk at me these days?" Don asked.

Charlie's mouth twisted. "Because you never say _anything_ when you've got a problem!"

"There's nothing to say."

Charlie was here, and Don wanted to lick the hollow of his throat until he spread his legs and begged.

A man was dead, and he'd killed men before. A little girl was back with her family, and that didn't happen as much as he would like.

Don had done his job well. It was in all the training manuals. This was his reward.

Charlie chuckled a little, and Don flinched. A hairline fracture grew in the pit of Don's stomach. The lights picked at his skin, burning through his clothes. He watched Charlie drag a hand through his hair. He looked at him, and Don moved back into the apartment.

Charlie shot forward over the threshold. He kicked the door shut behind him, and leaned on it.

"You think I _want_ to talk about this?" he asked. "Damn it, Don! I'm _tired_! I--you sure you've got enough light in here? You could signal MIR with this array."

He squinted to the side, into the light drenching the apartment. Don blinked, staring at the tight edge to Charlie's mouth. He shook his head, and backed into the closet door. Separate, isolate. They'd been separate before, and they could do it again.

"I told you to go home," he said.

Charlie coughed, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt. "Yeah, I know, hey, you pay electricity on a monthly basis, so with six plus four--no. I'm concentrating here."

Charlie moved past him, grabbing his elbow and tugging Don out of the hallway into his own living room. Heat bloomed at the point of contact, sharp and scorching. Don bit the inside of his cheek hard, and jerked his elbow out of Charlie's hand. He stepped back to the edge of his couch. Charlie stared at the beer bottles on the coffee table, the bare-bulbed lamps flaring in every room and corner.

The fracture in the pit of Don's stomach expanded, jagged at the edges, while the knot at his throat contracted. The light was supposed to help him face his problems, not exacerbate them. He could see everything. Every crease in the thin fabric of Charlie's clothes, every drooping curl, the shift of his muscles as he fidgeted under Don's stare, and on down to the fine tremor in Charlie's fingertips.

"I need more information," Charlie said.

"You can borrow my encyclopedia."

Don cackled into the mouth of his bottle. The alcohol slipped down his throat, barely spilling past the knot strangling his throat. He pressed his lips together to keep it from coming back up. Control, separation, more beer. Name of the game plan.

"That's funny. That's funny, and you're joking…that's a good thing…" Charlie stepped forward, and Don raised a hand.

"Just stay over there," Don said. He clutched his beer.

Charlie stopped moving. "Don, I want--"

"I don't care," he said. "I don't care, you need to…you need to leave."

"You're blocking my path."

"Well, that's easily taken care of, isn't it?"

Don collapsed onto the arm of his couch. He swept his arm to the side, and smiled. Because smiling was an important asset, and assets should be used whenever applicable.

"Feel free to _get out_ at any time."

Charlie pursed his lips, and took a deep breath. His arms crossed over his chest.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," he said.

Don stopped breathing. The lights flared in front of his eyes. The knot tightened, and the place where his gun holster _should_ have been felt suddenly heavy.

"You think I _did_?"

"No," Charlie said quietly. He blinked quickly, and Don wanted to apologize. Charlie wasn't too good with this shit.

"So…how'd it happen?" he asked instead.

Charlie shrugged. His eyes were narrowed against the light, a crease appeared in his forehead.

"Would you believe I don't know?" Charlie asked.

Don sucked air into his lungs, and what came back out wasn't really a laugh, but it was the best he could do on such short notice.

"No. You _always_ have the answers, don't you Charlie?"

He watched Charlie watch him, trying to ignore the way Charlie leaned a hip on the back of the easy chair. Don swallowed, and let the lights blind him again. He'd figured out all the angles to avoid that happening, but any advantage was good. No sight, no threat. Control, separate, more beer.

"That's what everybody says, anyway," he muttered. "Just. Ask. _Charlie_."

Don heard the shuffle of Charlie's feet against the carpet and turned his head away from the light bulb. Charlie had moved closer. His hands were in front of his body, long fingers twisting around each other. Don watched them curl and bend around each other, fingernails tracing the edges of Charlie's skin, running along the swirling fingerprint marks, and leaving white lines across the backs of his hands. He rubbed his own hand along the top of his thigh.

"I've been working on it," Charlie said. "An answer, I mean…we're not--are you gay?"

Don jerked to attention, and then looked down at his own hand. He coughed, and picked at a loose thread.

"Are you?"

"No! I--I'm equal opportunity," Charlie said. "As it were."

"…Works for me," Don said, nodding to his lap.

He risked a glance at Charlie, and wound up staring. Charlie's mouth curved, half-pleased, half-confused. He took another step forward. "Really? That's--that's…okay. Why--why didn't you say anything?"

Don snorted, and brought his beer to his mouth. If he concentrated on the bottle, it saved him from answering.

Charlie moved quickly. He reached out and wrapped his hand around the butt of the bottle. Don let go of the beer, and grabbed Charlie's wrist.

Charlie's eyes went wide. His mouth opened, and the point of his tongue swiped across his bottom lip. Don wanted to close his eyes. He felt a wrench in his stomach, the tear grew.

Charlie slowly pulled the beer away from Don's mouth. Don's arm stretched as Charlie's elbow bent. Charlie put the bottle to his lips. His Adam's apple bobbed as he drank.

Don's throat went dry. He stood, and in doing so, pushed on Charlie's wrist. The neck of the beer bottle slipped inside Charlie's mouth. His lips stretched over the brown glass.

Don squeezed Charlie's wrist, trapped as Charlie swallowed, throat muscles rippling. He raised his other hand, following the outline of the hard column behind Charlie's cheek. Soft skin, almost rough with stubble, prickled under his fingertips. Charlie's eyes slipped half-closed.

The lights suddenly seemed to shift and focus as Charlie lowered the beer bottle, letting the slick neck glide out of his mouth. The bottle fell to the carpet. Don's breath ripped out of his lungs in a harsh grunt. His cock began to harden. His hand shook, so he brought it away from Charlie's face, and tucked it in a belt loop.

This wasn't what he wanted. It _wasn't_. Charlie had to leave. If he left, than Don could figure out how to fix what was wrong with himself. It wasn't normal to want the things he wanted, and it wasn't _right_, and--Charlie was speaking. Charlie _had been_ speaking and all Don could think about was tasting his brother's--Don nodded his head shakily at something Charlie had said, and tightened his hold on Charlie's wrist.

God, why couldn't he stop _touching_?

Charlie swallowed again, lips shiny with saliva. "If the trigger," he said quietly, "was Emily's kidnapping, then the--the _sex_ wouldn't have happened. You've worked on kidnapping cases before. And--and Kirkpatrick…"

Don nodded, and pushed a fist into the bruise on his stomach, but the throb from Terry's mark only added to the widening rip in his chest. He tightened his mouth. Charlie bent his head closer, a few curls knocked against Don's forehead.

"So, it was _me_," Charlie said. "Outside stimulus exacerbates internal factors. A plus B _doesn't_ equal D, if C gets in the way. If A's the kidnapping, B the shooting, and D the outcome, than _C_…"

C stood for Charlie. Don's hand tightened on his brother's wrist. Charlie closed his eyes--almost like he was waiting for a hit--and Don wished for the luxury.

The crack widened, scraping his nerves raw. Don tried to pry his fingers off Charlie's wrist, but found he needed it for balance after all.

Terry had sucker punched him to break free. Charlie had bruises on his arms in the shape of Don's fingers. And Charlie thought _he_ was the problem.

"I _told_ you this isn't your fault," he growled.

Charlie shook his head. His breathed roughened.

"Look, I _ran the numbers_ on this one! I--"

"I am not a God damned _number_!"

Don shook Charlie's arm, forcing him to step back. Charlie hauled his wrist to the side, and Don moved forward. Charlie, all pale face and focussed eyes, pointed his other hand in Don's face.

"How _many_ times--_everything_ is _numbers_!"

Don grabbed the back of Charlie's neck with his free hand and dragged him into a kiss. Charlie's mouth opened underneath his, hard lips and clever tongue, while long fingers coiled into Don's belt loops. He tangled his fingers in Charlie's hair, and yanked, breaking them apart. Charlie jerked at the touch, and the back of Don's knees smacked into the arm of the couch.

They wavered, but Don locked his knees and managed to keep them both upright. Charlie's hands clenched on Don's ass. He shuddered and it fed the increasing chasm in Don's chest. He bent Charlie's head to the side, and licked down his neck while Charlie arched and cried out. Charlie's mouth was red, bruised, and Don grasped for breath, finding enough to speak.

"This can't happen," he said, shutting his eyes as Charlie pushed against his hip. He groaned at the first tug on the tight topknot pressing against his windpipe. "Don't let me do this. God, don't let me do this, I…"

Charlie pressed steadily, loosening the knot of Don's tie until it hung beneath the second button. He pulled, and Don had to follow, dragged by his tie behind the easy chair and through the doorway to his bedroom. Charlie fell back on the bed, and Don fell on Charlie. His back quaked, muscles straining not to crush Charlie underneath him.

Don took a shuddering breath, dropping his head, as Charlie unbuttoned his collar and pressed his thumb into the hollow of Don's throat. Charlie kissed the crease in Don's forehead, and it hurt as much as it soothed.

"This is _wrong_," Don said.

He held Charlie close, and rocked against his groin. Hard fingers clutched at his back, blunt crescent fingernails scraping through his shirt. Don leaned into the pain.

"You think I don't _know_ that?" Charlie asked.

Don groaned. His hand pushed down Charlie's ribcage, the soft sin of his hipbone, and around into the front of Charlie's jeans. Charlie wrenched at the side of Don's shirt, sending buttons popping, and knocking his tie askew.

"This is going to _stop_ tonight," Don said. He thumbed open the button at Charlie's jeans, and pushed his hand into Charlie's underwear.

"I know, I know."

Charlie shuddered as Don clenched his hand around Charlie's cock and pulled. He planted messy kisses along Don's forehead and down to his lips, turning his head away to cry out when Don twisted his hand, and brought the other hand inside his pants to cup Charlie's balls. He rested his head on the Charlie's breastbone.

"This is the _end_."

"Okay, no problem," Charlie panted into Don's neck. "Kiss me good bye."

A hand gripped Don through his pants, knowing and just cruel enough to make him thrust for more. Charlie burrowed his head into the hollow of Don's throat, licking up the Adam's Apple and into Don's mouth. Don moaned, and stroked Charlie harder.

The fault in his stomach spread, widened, grew until it cracked his chest as Charlie worked his cock. Don scratched underneath Charlie's shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving it hanging from one arm. Charlie groaned and the rip, the tear, the horrible heat infesting Don's body broke wide. He pushed them further up the bed, holding Charlie in one hand, and writhing out of his own slacks with the other.

His tie was gone, lost somewhere in the writhing of their bodies. His shirt hung open, driven up his back by Charlie's hands. The apartment lights hollowed him out, blackened his insides, scorching his skin and driving his fingers, his tongue into Charlie's body. "Don't let me do this," he whispered to Charlie's chest, biting his way between nipples. "Don't let me do this. Tell me to stop. _Make_ me stop."

Charlie's fingers curled into his hair. Don bit down on the nipple underneath his mouth, and Charlie bucked upwards. Oh, someone forgive him, because Don could stay here for hours and not taste his fill, and--

"Stop."

Don froze, his hands clenched on Charlie's body, mouth still pursed. Charlie slipped from underneath him, leaving Don crouched, unmoving, on all fours. Don stared at the dip in his pillow left by Charlie's head.

It was over. He'd done it.

Charlie knelt on the bed. Don could almost see the rise and fall of Charlie's chest out of the corner of his eye, the bony point of his knee. Don's cock hung heavy between his legs. He turned his attention back to the dip in the pillow, and waited for Charlie to leave.

It was over. He'd done it.

The crevasse in his chest wouldn't seem to close. The edges crumbled, and wouldn't fit together again, too thin to cover something that wasn't there anymore. Charlie pressed up on Don's shoulder and turned him onto his back. Don lay his head on the pillow, and looked at the ceiling.

He felt cold for some reason. He hadn't felt cold in weeks.

He closed his eyes.

A hand landed carefully on Don's abdomen, long-fingered and strong. A finger swept over the yellowing bruise on his stomach. Don's muscles quivered.

"If I had said that before, would you have stopped?" Charlie asked.

Don nodded. Of course.

"Open your eyes."

Don shook his head to the ceiling. His body simmered, pulsed under Charlie's hand. There was still… "I think you should go."

He heard Charlie sigh. Felt a shiver wrack the bed, and then…

"…Please?"

Don opened his eyes, and watched as Charlie bent his head over the bruise. He kissed the heart of it, and glanced upwards. Their eyes met, and Don hated that _that_ made him feel better.

"I'm _sorry_," Don said.

"Everything is numbers," Charlie said, and bit down.

Don arched off the bed, slamming a hand to the mattress and another to Charlie's head. A hot tongue laved over the new bite, circling into the center before stabbing downwards, and then the teeth ground onto him again. He writhed upwards, into the teeth, the tongue, the chapped lips nudging over the edges of the bruise.

The teeth gentled, the tongue softened, and Don fought for his breath. Charlie murmured into his skin, low and scared, and Don could only pant and reach for the hard cock between Charlie's legs. He was sorry, he was so sorry for everything, while Charlie redefined the borders of his bruise: tongue, then teeth, then more tongue, then--

Charlie's eyes flicked to his face, dark and wild, as wrecked as Don felt. His cock throbbed, red and slick, and Charlie held Don's hips down to change the angle of his teeth in Don's stomach. Don moaned, light in his eyes. The throb of his blood beat in his cock, as Charlie reformed the bruise, deepening it until it sent shock waves through Don's body, and, finally, darkened his sight.

The mouth, glowing red and wet, left his stomach, and Don whined at the loss, thrusting into the air. Charlie wrapped his legs around him, his arms and mouth around him, and there was nothing holding him together but the places where his brother touched. A hand here, a foot there, lips on his skin, and a cock in his hand. Don burned, charred, and turned to ash while Charlie sucked the breath from his body and didn't give it back.

His brother moved above him, a hot, shadowed outline blocking the lights, and it hurt to be in the dark, almost as much as it had to be in all that light. Don shuddered as Charlie did, and pulled him closer, tucking his brother into his side. He closed his eyes, nose in the sweaty curls at Charlie's neck, and saw nothing at all.

 

***

 

Dr. Weber smiled at him from her chair in the conference room.

"You know, Don," she began, "we only have a limited amount of these sessions of ours. And, while I'm sure you'll be glad to see the back of me…" She paused, clearly waiting for his reaction.

Don smiled tightly, decided a laugh would be appropriate, and she continued.

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing (apparently, not even my sanity). Numb3rs is the product of CBS and the Scott Brothers, and I make nothing from this while they rake in the millions. Which is how I like it. In other words? I. Made. It. Up.


End file.
